Reasons to Date Courtney Beck

Business Time by Flight Of The Conchords - A tale of socks and sexy time. 

Socks have super powers of the contraceptive kind.

Let me explain. 

Imagine a person so sexy they are the very definition of sex on legs. So sexual that if they were cordial, they’d be the concentrate that makes 15 litres of pure sweet cordial goodness. And if you were to try and consume them on your own, their power would just be too strong. Their unbridled sexiness would overpower you, and you would have no choice but to add water and consume a diluted version. 

Now, strip this person down and only leave them in their socks. Their sexual superpowers have now been diluted to their weakest form. 

There are two ways now that this conversation could go:

1. We find out that you have a weird sock fetish and my argument about socks being a contraceptive is destroyed. Weirdo.

2. You think back over your sexual career and remember the times that someone wore socks to bed and how things got unsexy very quickly. 

My point, there is nothing sexual about socks. You can sleep in socks, you can wear socks to work, but as soon as you remove the rest of your clothes and you’re standing there naked as the day you were born with stretchy cotton material pulled over your feet, your sexiness rating has become the equivalent of granny undies or saggy jocks. And I’m not embellishing here. 

You’ve gone from sexual hero to your Uncle Miro in a matter of seconds.

Now, you can make a comeback if you realise and remove your socks quickly. Ideally your socks should be taken off with the same speed as the rest of your clothes. The moment when you decide to leave only your socks on is when you’ve officially lost the race. And in a world where there is a shortage on sex, do you really want to take this risk?! 

Don’t give me excuses about cold weather, and don’t tell me your partner likes your socks on either, because they’re lying to you. The only excuse I’ll accept is if you have a gnarly hangnail, and then I’m telling you, sort your feet out and your sex life will improve.

Unless you are Tom Cruise, or playing Tom Cruise in a community play titled ‘Risky Business’ there are no socks allowed. 

Take your socks off, free your body, and remember… Socks are NOT for business time. And if you’re engaging in Risky Business, use protection. 

What would you do if you met someone you really liked, arrived at their place for some sexy time and were confronted with a whole heap of stuffed toys on their bed? Or better still… you pulled back the covers and a stuffed toy lay there watching you.

Interesting statistic: Apparently 35% of adults still sleep with a stuffed toy. So chances are, if you date a few people, this scenario could very possibly happen to you.

How would you handle this?

When I was young I had a rabbit called Mumby.

This isn’t Mumby, but he kind of looked like this.

Mumby was a lovely, yet silent character who accompanied me everywhere. Hanging out with me though was not without its dangers. There was an unfortunate incident where Mumby stupidly dipped his ear in my rice bubbles, so I had to put him in front of the heater to dry. As you can probably guess Mumby sat too close to the heater and his ear caught on fire. My Mum had to operate, with scissors. She amputated his ear without anaesthetic.

It’s a cruel world.

Mumby was a survivor though, so he was ok. He never told me that, but we continued to venture on like nothing had happened. The only real difference was that when he needed a wash Mum could no longer hang him by two ears on the line, but I always thought that was uncalled for anyway.

Mumby and I were inseparable until I got to Primary school, and then we started to grow apart. I discovered basketball cards, enjoyed conversation and Mumby just wasn’t really into chatting about Michael Jordan. But I still adored him, and he was my oldest friend. In fact, we were the same age.

Mumby was taken out of my bed and moved to the top of my wardrobe where he sat looking down on my world.

I never really grew out of loving rabbits though and collect them now. The ones I collect are by an artist called Frank Kozik, and they’re called Labbits. This is my favourite Labbit, called Stache.

The difference between when I was a child to now: I simply admire my Labbits from afar. And they aren’t toys that I play with, they are collectors items by a well known artist and to me they are art. Yes I just said that.

But seriously… I wonder how the Italian would have handled it if I still slept with Mumby? It brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘threesome’, doesn’t it?. Luckily for me, I grew out of it, but a lot of people don’t.

Would it creep you out if you met someone who still slept with their stuffed toy or blankie?

Would you set the rule that during sexy time the soft toy would be ejected to the lounge-room to ‘watch tv’?

And if it is a security thing for some people… Would you be offended if they still needed their toy despite being in a happy and safe relationship with you?

As you know, in my blog I like to cover the tough territory.

So, soft toys… enemy or allie?

2 weeks in Thailand, 2 hours at a Ping Pong Show, 1 dart fired from a lovely girl’s vajajay at a balloon just above my girlfriend’s head. Yes, The Italian and I lived it large in Thailand!

Let me take you to Bangla Rd, Patong.

A walk down Bangla Rd is like descending into sin. Bars, Go-Go Girls, stolen monkeys and no rules. Well, there doesn’t appear to be any rules. Ping Pong promoters stand every metre or so with a menu of Ping Pong delights attempting to seduce you into their club to see a show.

PING PONG SHOW! PING PONG SHOW! FREE FOR YOU! FREE!!

Note: To decline an invite to a Ping Pong promoter, you must decline them 3 times. Anything less and they will just assume you are shy.

The Italian and I, curious as to what one of these shows would entail followed a promoter to a bar which appeared to be owned by an English guy. We sat down and were strongly encouraged to pay $32 for a beer. Yes, not a 6-pack, just one beer. It seems free in Thailand has a different meaning to here in Australia. But as my Mum always said, there’s no such thing as a free lunch…or free Ping Pong.

Once seated at a small table for 2, we sat and took in the atmosphere. Seedy, and funnily enough more females than males. The Show began with some pole dancing and a very talented Vajajay Artist (kind of like an R-rated Subway Sandwich Artist) proceeded to pull out at least a few metres of flowers on a string for us. When asked if we wanted to help pull the flowers out we politely declined. No-one else seemed to make the connection that touching her string was as good as touching her, and The Italian and I weren’t up for that.

The next Vajajay Artist on stage was a smoker. She smoked a cigarette for us by contracting her muscles. When we got back to the hotel The Italian commented that our hair smelt like smoke. ‘Vagina smoke?’ I said. ‘Well, at least that’s the last time this problem will ever happen…I hope?’

This particular lady who I’m tempted to say was smokin’, only because she literally was, also carried a dart launcher. The Italian was handed a balloon on a stick by the bar girl and was told to put her free hand over her eyes. Yes, this girl was about to shoot an actual dart less than a foot above my girlfriend’s head at a balloon.

Was she a good shot? Remarkably, and luckily yes. But there was a few darts that appeared to go missing mid-flight, to which she simply re-loaded, contracted her muscles and shot another one. BANG! Another balloon bites to the dust to the Vajajay Artist. Actually thinking about it, why was there never a Ping Pong girl in James Bond movies?! There was a girl who killed men with her thighs, poison tipped vajajay darts would have been a hit…at adult cinemas.

The worst trick by far and one I could barely watch was when a girl pulled out razor blades on a string. I don’t know how she did it. The Italian is convinced she had a cylinder tucked away to protect herself. This is the point where the show turned us off. At what risk do these girls put themselves in to earn a living? And what choice do they actually have?

On a softer note, the show concluded with blowing out candles, luckily not attached to a cake. I think that’s the only time I recall thinking that fanny farting could have a purpose in the world.

All up, an epic show. I’m still mildly irritated that we had to pay $32 for a beer, but in saying that when do you ever get see darts being fired from a vajajay launcher? Never. Well certainly not in the places I hang out anyway.

What I’m intrigued by is how you end up in a Ping Pong Show? And how do you recognise that you have the necessary skills?

Have your sexual partners commented in the past that your vajajay is as strong as the Hulk? Was there this one time (not at band camp) where your fanny farted and the curtains moved like an unexpected breeze had swept through? I don’t know. How do you come to the conclusion that you’re naturally talented in that area and then make it your career? Can you train for it?

I mean, I’m talented in a few areas, but I think my own vajajay would be as talented as my right shoe, or my stapler at work. It does the job, but it’s not a trained killer. I’m kind of thankful though that the only way I’ll ever be able to blow out birthday candles is by the lips on my face.

More stories from Thailand to come… Stay tuned.

I am known to have a stationery fetish. It’s not THAT sort of fetish, as in I don’t want to get sexy with stationery - but I do love it, a lot. 

So when the lovely folks at Nation State decided to send me some Rhodia stationery I didn’t say no, in fact I said ’Yes! Yes! Yes!’. 

When I was single, there was a time when new stationery and my Mac Book Air were all I needed… but cold metal and paper don’t keep you warm at night (unless they’re on fire). They are very nice though. 

So  I started my blog, dated a few girls and met The Italian. Ahhh The Italian… insert imagery of of tweeting birds, sunny skies and skunks with love heart eyes, all of that stuff.

Which reminds me, it is probably time for an update on The Italian and I. 

Would you believe that this month we have been together ‘officially’ for 6 months?! Time flies when you’re having fun. She is amazing, and friends’ who have had the privilege of meeting her couldn’t agree with me more. One friend even jokes that if I don’t propose first, he’ll hire a jazz quartet and beat me to it. The one-up I have on him: boobs. 

Do you believe in destiny?

I don’t think I ever told you that 2 years ago I went and saw a clairvoyant who told me I’d meet an olive skinned, dark-haired retired model who was ‘THE ONE’.

She told me this woman would be beautiful, down-to-earth, caring and most of all, loyal. She also said it would be the first time for both of us where our love for each other would be equal. 

What’s funny is that I didn’t quite believe it would happen and decided to start my blog anyway. It was only when one of my best friends, The Reader, exclaimed one day that ‘The prophecy has been fulfilled!’ that I realised there was a fairly good chance this was it.

The Italian is, without a doubt everything I’ve always wanted, and more than I’ve ever dreamed of. Our conversations are hilarious, she’s as big of a nerd as I am, and it’s the first time in my life I feel we have a perfect balance of everything. I adore her, and I fall more in love everyday. And just when I think I couldn’t be more in love with her, she puts on a character voice of how her dog would speak if it could, and I fall for her even more. And the description the clairvoyant gave…spot on. 

On the 23rd of this month we will have been together ‘officially’ for 6 months, and on Friday we’re heading to Thailand for 2 amazing weeks. While we’re there, we’re going to hit up a Ping-Pong show just for shits and giggles, and I’d like to write a piece on mail-order brides… I couldn’t ask for someone more supportive of my career, my blog and me as a person. And it was her idea to go to the Ping-Pong show. 

I started this blog in May last year with the goal of potentially meeting ‘The One’, or just to prove my friends wrong that I could actually bring girls to dinner. I didn’t ever bring any girls to dinner because they generally proved to be in other states, but I’m quietly confident I’ve met the woman I’m going to be with forever. And one day I may in fact hire a jazz quartet and ‘Marry the shit out of her’.

Marrying the shit out of someone is a phrase that a friend of ours uses when she thinks you’ve met the one. I wouldn’t recommend using it, as it’s not the smoothest line I’ve ever heard… but it conveys the idea perfectly that when you find that one person that gives you fireworks in your heart, just fecking go for it! 

I once heard a story of a man who said to a woman ’Warm yourself up and get ready for me’. By this, he meant… ‘You do the foreplay, and I’ll come in for 3 seconds once the action has started’. 

I want to give this man an education. I want to tell this man that he does not deserve a woman, or even a plastic doll to spread her legs for him. It’s not often I would choose to wish sexual punishment on anyone because it is one of life’s great pleasures… but to this man, I wish blue-balls. For a really long time. 

But first, let us ponder how he possibly came to think that this type of behaviour is acceptable. Here are my questions: 

1. Did his parents go wrong in their birds and bees chat? 

2. Did he learn about what women want from porn? 

3. I don’t have a question 3, because I’m still stumped on questions 1 and 2. 

In regards to the parental side of things, perhaps we are looking at a case of not being taught how to give and then receive. 

And porn - Well… porn is just so out of whack with how real life actually is, if this was his crash course in sex it’s not wonder he’s going to believe it’s all about the wham-bam thank-you ma’am. 

Porn has a lot to answer for in our society. Yes, sometimes it is a quick thoughtless fix, but surely most of the general population understand that porno style sex is not sustainable or enjoyable. I know it seems like the women in these ‘short-films’ are enjoying it, but I’d say a fair amount of lube has gone into that ‘enjoyment’. 

It saddens me to think that some men believe that warming a woman up is as simple as throwing a pie in the microwave for 2 minutes and ‘she’s good to go’.

‘Do it for me though love, I’m too lazy to get up.’ 

I know, I know. As much as I appear to be attacking the sexually uneducated man, I’m not. This is sexy-time 101. 

Two things: 

1. The reputation of someone bad in bed travels as quickly as an STD in a backpacker’s hostel. 

2. What happens when you actually meet the woman of your dreams and you can’t keep her happy in the bedroom? 

Let me throw something at you - How good would you feel if you absolutely rocked your girlfriend’s world?

Like seriously blew her socks off. Now, that is something to be proud of. And before you think to yourself ‘I’m awesome and she loves it’… she probably doesn’t. In fact, there’s probably at least 10 things she doesn’t like. So from today, take the time to actually find out what she does enjoy…and never assume. Women’s bodies are about 10 times more sensitive than you think, so when you go in like a bull in a china shop imagine what it’d be like if she took to you with sandpaper. 

Don’t be afraid to do your research, but don’t look to porn. Porn, like animation is not real. There are other resources out there, but a damn good start is to go slow, be gentle, and remember that your lady friend deserves a lot more of your time than a pie heating up in the microwave. 

And I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised that she’ll return the favour. 

This is a topic that has come up quite a bit lately amongst friends. 

When in a new relationship, how does one asked to be taken with wild abandon? That’s the politest way that I can word wanting to be ‘fecked harder’, as one friend described it.

How do you switch off ‘Polite Sex’ and switch on ‘Raw Animalistic Passion’? 

As a rule, most people are polite with everything in the beginning, and we get less polite over time. Perhaps polite sex dies with time as we get to know our new partner?

Or are we just wrong in the first place assuming that everyone wants a ‘tender lover’?

What I have noticed is that it tends to be the ‘quiet ones’ who enjoy a bit of rough and tumble. One of my quieter friends has even admitted to liking having her hair pulled. And by gosh - I never would have picked that! So, if we think we know our friends and we get it wrong… How are we supposed to know what our new partners want? 

The answer: We must man the feck up and ask them… and then brace ourselves as we enter the awkward country. 

Now. I must warn you. Engaging in the rough and tumble is not without its share of injuries. I know someone who got involved in a little fisting incident gone horribly wrong that accidentally sent her girlfriend to hospital when she asked to be fisted harder. 

I unfortunately have copped a shoulder to my jaw in a once overly enthusiastic jaunt many years ago. This injury has now reduced my ability to consume large pieces of sushi, and/or donuts. My jaw has unfortunately never been able to make a comeback. 

But, just by existing on this earth we are risking dangerous situations on a day-to-day basis. So why not have a little fun doing it?! I did actually go through a stage where I wanted to change my middle name to ‘Danger’. Courtney Danger Beck. Nice eh? 

So, here’s my tips for breaking through the polite zone!

1. Be honest and upfront about what you want and like. An awkward conversation that lasts 5 minutes is far better than a life of polite sex. 

2. Give your partner a bit of time to adjust. I once went on a date with a girl who asked me if I’d be willing to be the ‘Dominator’. I am by no means a dominator, and I don’t think I could ever be a ‘Get on the bed bitch!’ kind of girl. Give your partner time to ‘train’, but realise that they may never be the ‘Dominator’ you’ve been dreaming of. 

3. Give feedback. Let your partner know when they’re hitting the nail on the head so to speak. Everyone loves a bit of encouragement!

And lastly, if you’re partner just isn’t getting the gist of what you want, then perhaps it’s time to move on. It is true to a certain extent that a leopard can’t change its spots, and if you like hanging out in gimp masks and your dating a ‘cuddler’… I’m sorry, but I just don’t think it’s going to work.

Gimp masks… Now that’s a topic for another night. ;) 

How much hair does one consume during sex? 

Think about it - Unless you’re dating dudes with short hair, you’re dating women who tend to have long hair or perhaps Fabio? Ok, maybe not Fabio, but someone is dating him and I’d imagine they’d be consuming their fair share of blonde streaked Pantene treated locks.

I guess when it comes to hair, the one good thing about dating people with dreadlocks is that you can’t exactly swallow their hair…It’s just too fat (or phat, depending on what turns you on). 

Swallowing dreadlocks versus normal hair is like comparing Angel Hair spaghetti to penne, one is substantially easier to down than the other.

So if you’re dating someone with dreads, and they land in your mouth… What does it taste like? ‘

‘Salty’ apparently - according to a friend who’s dating a surfer.

Hmm - Somehow I think dating a surfer with dreads is going to taste a lot better than a mechanic with dreads because I imagine they’d be… ‘Greasy’?

Perhaps the ultimate in dating ‘dreads’ is to find someone who runs a Fairy Floss stand, because they’d be ‘Sweet?’. 

I just can’t imagine ever wanting to caress dreadlocks. I think I’d just want to observe them closely and see if there was anything growing…or moving. A bit like watching magic crystals grow. 

Dreads are supposed to be very clean - I will however remain sceptical of this fact. But, you are talking to the girl who must wash her hair everyday. 

Tell me, how do you feel about dreads? 

Some advice for those suffering hairy issues in the bedroom:

I would suggest that you either tie your hair back, or pop it behind your ears. And tying it back goes for dreadlocks too, because as much as some people like copping it in the mouth…it’s a safe bet that most will not. 

Note: This is a dog with dreadlocks. 

Dudes with underwear hanging out of the tops of their pants? I don’t understand it. 

Underwear should be something mysterious, something you catch a glimpse of, or to be shown in its full glory whilst seducing the apple of your eye. 

It is not to be shown in day to day life, hanging out the top of your trousers. Yes, I said trousers. 

You know what I think when I see dudes with their underwear hanging out? 

I make an assessment on the brand and therefore how much they are potentially earning and what they do for a living. 

I judge. Harshly. 

My judgment eyes get even harsher if even more underwear than the band is hanging out. ‘Really? Your pants are too loose, and you buy your underwear too big too? C’monnnn’. I say that with my best Al Pacino accent.  

No-one likes sloppy - and loose underwear on men is the equivalent of granny undies on women. If you’re thinking right now that semen die when underwear is too tight, then don’t fret… there is an acceptable level of tightness. If it can hang in multiple folds over the top of your pants then you need to go down a few sizes. And let’s face it, your package probably looks bigger with a bit of firmness than loose material around it, no pun intended. Ok, yes there was, but only as an afterthought. 

Note: Moves like this kill semen - Firm underwear does not. 

A few gents have told me that they wear underwear like that because ‘It means my jeans don’t rub on my skin.’

Who are you?! Girly men! Women wear denim on their skin every god-damn day, and you know what, we’d never be caught dead with our underwear hanging out the tops of our pants! And we moisturise, so therefore our skin is softer and is more prone to ‘rubbing’. Suck it up boys if that’s your reason. And if you think that it’s fashionable to wear your underwear outside your pants, then make sure that you are feeding the eyeballs of the fashion conscious general public checking out your statement. 

Wear old undies - Judgement eyes, and girls will assume you can’t afford new undies.  

Wear cheap branded undies - Judgement eyes, and people will assume you’re cheap. 

Wear expensive undies - Judgement eyes and people might call you a wanker. 

Wearing Robert Pattinson undies - Judgement off the radar! And the kind of girls or guys you’d attract wearing these would be biters. ;) And if you’re dating a biter, tight undies aren’t going to seem so bad. 

Therefore, I would suggest that you toughen up, keep them under your pants and bring a little mystery back. Mystery is hot - Visible underwear is not. 

Thank-you and goodnight. 

Isn’t it funny that when you first start to date someone that stalking them is perfectly acceptable?

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, just stalking (insert first name or cute nickname)”. 

“Ok, cool.”

There are no raised eyebrows, no increased heartbeat, as far as the stalker and friend are concerned they could be talking about cooking, or toilet paper. The stalking stage is the norm, and it begins to happen as soon as you’re interested in someone.

All I can say is, thank-god Facebook does not record ‘visits’ because I think a lot of my friends would probably have restraining orders against them by now. 

When you think about it, you could liken it to a lion stalking its prey. Kind of like watching from the bushes as what you plan to eat for dinner (no pun intended) goes about their daily activities… What’s a little creepy though is that you’ve already picked through all of their ‘Likes’, ‘Check-ins’ and that you’ve seen every photo they’ve posted on Facebook and figured out which of the photos contains their ex. Don’t even think about denying that you’ve done this, I know what you’re thinking. 

Social media makes stalking so god damn easy. 

But at what stage does the stalking finish? Does it finish when the relationship begins?

Can stalking evolve into love?

I think it could go either way. Love, or you could get thrown into jail depending on how hardcore you are. Or how good your disguise is really… Digital stalking (Facebook etc) is pretty much untraceable, getting out there in the streets with a trenchcoat and fake moustache peering into windows…Creepy and noticeable.

Note: This is never cute, unless you’re going to a costume party. 

If you’ve taken your stalking from Facebook into the night, then you’re only a heavy breathing phone call away from a restraining order. And really, if you have to look through someone’s window I think they’re just not that into you. 

Sleazy French men… What are they all about? 

Do they believe that the accent gives them a license to schmooze? That women’s pants will drop at the mere intonation of their voice?

No. My friends, I tell you ‘No!’. The jig is up! Maybe this worked in the 70’s, but not now. Unless you’re a drunk straight woman, and then maybe… 

Obviously I am not the Frenchman’s target audience, which may have created a magical force field that renders me immune to their charms, but whoever wrote the Frenchman’s guide to picking up women was sorely mistaken. Women have evolved, and we’re not longer like bees to a French honey pot. We’ve got an in-built App in our brains now that puts everything you say into an Australian accent, and to tell you the truth…you aren’t that special anymore. 

My friend, Dr. Draw, and I met a Frenchman tonight. And I think he thought his suit, slicked back hair, and the fact he said he was a Software Salesman in a French accent would go a long way. It did not. Even when he drawled the word ‘Enterprise’ and looked excitedly back at us, we did not bat an eyelid. We work in advertising, we deal with ‘buzz words’ on a daily basis. Hell, we create buzz words! 

No, we were more annoyed that he had interrupted our pub dinner where we were cracking advertising jokes and laughing about things like ‘If most of society were wiped out by a plague, what would people do without graphic designers and digital strategists?!’.

And just in case you haven’t thought about it…

If the world had no graphic designers signs would no longer be pretty and meaningful, and you’d have no idea what to buy.

And…

There would be nobody to find holes in the user journey of a Facebook App if Digital Strategists didn’t exist. 

We were battling #1stworldproblems, and the Frenchman had rudely interrupted our evening as he attempted to hit on us. 

Why am I writing such a scathing review of Frenchie’s attempts to woo Dr. Draw and I? Well, he played the ‘Guilt Game’ with us. Allow me to explain:

He originally approached the table to give me tips on my coaster flipping technique. Warranted. I’m ok with flipping coasters, but it’s a talent I’m still working on. After putting in his two cents and telling us he could ‘flip 30 coasters’ back in Europe…That’s a totally unbelievable figure by the way! I mightn’t have been flipping coasters for very long, but you’d struggle to even find 30 dry coasters in a bar, let alone flip 30 and catch them. 

Anyway… He did eventually go back to his table. 

After 5 or so minutes, he returned giving the excuse that his friend needed to leave to meet his girlfriend at the ballet and he didn’t want to finish his beer alone.  

Is ballet even on a Wednesday?! Or was he trying the ol’ ‘I’m going to tell you my best friend is in a relationship, likes ballet and therefore by association and because I have a French accent you should date me’ trick. Entirely possible. 

Dr. Draw replied with a sigh to his request. Yes, he could sit with us until he finished his beer. By no means was she rude, we were just not in the mood for his advances. Bravely or stupidly, he responded and entered the dangerous territory of:

‘Why do women always make men feel about this big?! All I was saying is that I did not want to be alone, and it would have been nice if you’d just said that I could sit with you.’ 

Of course, we reluctantly apologised, and this is where he gleefully sat down and explained that he had ‘won’. He had hoped we’d feel bad and invite him to sit down. Little did he know that he’d sat with a wily lesbian and an equally wily straight woman. No deal Frenchy, no deal. 

Over the course of the next 20 minutes or so he continued to try his seduction techniques on us, and like a mosquitoes being deflected by one of those things you set on fire at bbq’s…we drifted further and further away. But, we did give him a B+ for the effort of approaching, and an F- for originality. 

Just because you’re French doesn’t mean that every girl is going to fall at your feet. 

Secondly, when you look like a baddie from a James Bond film, I’m honestly going to sit there while you’re talking and ponder that you actually look Russian, not French, and wonder which character you would be if you were in a James Bond film.

Thirdly…Was he actually French at all, or was it all a pants dropping ploy?! 

The fourth card he played: He leads a lonely salesman life where his only indulgences are Foxtel and eating out alone at strange pubs. But in the next sentence, he admitted that he was from Sydney. 

Ahh Frenchie, so much to learn. So so much to learn. For your effort, I hope that you come across a women that enjoys a good French stick, that is probably about ‘this big’, which is apparently how strong women make men feel… Or was that just you Mr. French software salesman?